


Just A Happy Jaunt In The Woods

by 1allycat



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: AND SHENANIGANS, F/F, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Some adventure, Some hurt/comfort, adults using magic together, and bonus bears, and other fun tropes such as: MUST HUDDLE FOR WARMTH, maybe a smattering of angst to go with the fluff, poor women just want a date, some competence porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29210514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1allycat/pseuds/1allycat
Summary: It's been a tough year, and Lark and Rosethorn are overdue for a date. So they foist off their charges on Frostpine and they go on a nice picnic in the woods.Then everything goes ridiculously wrong.Takes place the spring after Briar's Book.
Relationships: Dedicate Lark/Dedicate Rosethorn
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Just A Happy Jaunt In The Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thereinafter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereinafter/gifts).



1\. Lark

Lark decided some grownup private time was overdue when Rosethorn got annoyed with her for breathing too loudly.

Not that Rosethorn _said_ anything, of course. They’d been partners for too many years, housemates for even longer. They’d learned to recognize stress-induced emotions and not blow up at one another.

But Lark noticed the tension in the other woman’s shoulders, while Rosethorn wrote letters at the table. She saw the tightness in the jaw, the way her fingers gripped the pen too tight, making the knuckles white. The imperceptible flare of her nostrils.

And if that weren’t enough to tip her off, when Rosethorn became aggravated, the house got mad right alongside her. Pine beams and floorboards creaked in protest, the walnut doors and table moaned, and, if the green witch was truly distressed, even the roof joined in, crackling and groaning.

(Anyone not paying attention might’ve missed that. But Lark noticed, because she paid attention to her home, and she especially paid attention to the people she loved.)

So Lark knew, that Firesday evening as she sat in the rocking chair knitting gloves and listening to the plaintive groan of the floorboards, that something bothered Rosethorn.

It took a while to work out what. The children were on the roof, blissfully quiet. (A welcome change, having spent the day screaming at each other.) The dog snoozed in a corner, and he'd not broken, chewed, or soiled anything recently. Since Lark knew, having asked earlier, that Rosethorn was writing the head healer at Lake Circle about an arthritis salve, the letter seemed an unlikely source of distress.

And Rosethorn had no health complaints that Lark knew of—and Lark paid _very_ close attention to that—so her tension didn’t stem from physical discomfort.

Which left Lark, herself.

She tried not to take that personally.

It had been a tough few months. Living with four children had become living with four almost-teenagers, and four almost-teenagers with strong, oft-unpredictable magic, and—well, it was good they’d had two years to grow to love these four, because many days Lark and Rosethorn wanted to kill them.

Patience was in short supply at Discipline, these days.

So, having realized that Rosethorn twitched each time the rocking chair moved to the rhythm of Lark’s breath, Lark pushed down her initial annoyance and decided she and Rosethorn needed time to themselves. To reconnect.

Hopefully without the four aforementioned almost-teenagers mucking it up.

After pondering the best approach for a second, she lowered her knitting and asked quietly:

“Is my breathing upsetting you?”

Rosethorn’s hand froze on the pen. Her eyes widened slightly—and then she blushed, which helped soothe Lark’s annoyance. Rosethorn made a rather endearing picture, when she blushed.

It also helped that she plainly felt bad about the matter: her shoulders slumped and her lips quirked downwards. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for what you feel,” said Lark. “I was simply confirming a hunch.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Rosethorn said. “It’s not your fault. I’m…jumpy, tonight.”

They’d both been jumpy for many, many nights.

Too many nights.

So many nights, that Lark had been pondering a silencing spell on one of their rooms. But Discipline was a very small place, and its walls so thin that not only sound, but vibrations also traveled everywhere. So she'd given up the thought.

And they'd both remained jumpy.

“I think we should take a nice break,” said Lark, eyelids lowering to half-mast. “Perhaps a picnic. Or a daytrip to the beach. Or a night trip…”

“Oh, gods. Yes.” Rosethorn’s blush crept down her neck, but Lark rather suspected it had a happier cause, now. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Tomorrow?”

Rosethorn winced and glanced up.

Toward the roof.

“They’re old enough to fend for themselves for a day,” said Lark. But she couldn’t make herself sound convincing.

Rosethorn didn’t need to add, “Last time they fended for themselves, they got drunk and blew up the shed,” to make clear a plan was needed to contain their students, lest the nice break Lark dreamed of be interrupted by a(nother) booming, spirits-fueled fireball.

Or by panicked air novices screaming about floating metal cacti that spat lightning. As had happened the time before last.

Or by their privacy spells in the very secluded spot behind the Water Temple gardens being _shattered_ by a wave of panicked woven magics, which alerted half the temple and definitively ruined Lark and Rosethorn's surreptitious lunch picnic.

(Their charges claimed the air novices had insulted Lark and Rosethorn and deserved retribution. As for the garden incident, Briar tearfully confessed he’d been worried to see them sneak to the infirmary—which sat next to the Water Temple gardens—and he thought Rosethorn was sick again.)

(Lark had almost forgiven him that one. Almost.)

“Niko owes us,” started Rosethorn, but she bit off the next words. “No, he’s away, isn’t he? Coward.”

Lark considered the accusation. “The Ragat Island council summoned him to help rebuild their scrying circle. He could hardly refuse.”

But she’d also noticed the increased frequency of Niko’s travels. It had begun around the time he’d witnessed—within the same week—Briar and Daja exploding at each other over which temple novice was prettier, Tris starting a quake because she’d lost her bookmark on the first day of her monthly cycles, and Sandry attempting to weave two people’s minds together to help her uncle negotiate a treaty.

What Niko did not know was that the week that scared him off had not been nearly as bad as the one before. Or the one after. Or several that had passed since.

She ought to have a chat with him. A mage was not tied to one place as dedicates were, yes, but neither was he allowed to foist off his teaching duties just because he was unaccustomed to youthful dramatics.

Rosethorn sighed. “Frostpine’s been meaning to teach them about infusing magic into objects. I’ll ask him to move up the lesson. To tomorrow.”

Lark liked the idea.

“He’s hosting that group of dedicates from Second Circle’s fire temple. Will he agree?”

“He will,” Rosethorn said, ominously, “or I’ll threaten to poison his next batch of hay fever syrup.”

Lark laughed. “Persuasive. But in case his hosting duties are keeping him busy, we should have an alternative.” She thought about it. “Peachleaf once offered an in-depth tour of the infirmaries, in case they consider a career in healing.”

Rosethorn grunted. “They’ll eat Peachleaf alive. Tris will point out all the ways in which patient flow is flawed. Sandry will complain about the nurse’s bedside manners and demand to talk with Moonstream. Daja will argue about the right ways to exercise while sick, and Briar…you know.”

Lark knew. Briar nursed a dislike of healers, after the blue pox. To cure him of it, Rosethorn had begun taking shifts at the infirmary, preparing her potions and salves there rather than in her workshop. She and Lark hoped that simply being there would help Briar overcome whatever residual unease sat inside him.

So far, he spent half his time glaring at healers and making snide faces, and the other half surreptitiously trying to weave a protective herb circle around Rosethorn’s workstation. Twice his efforts had accidentally disturbed healing charms and gotten him kicked out.

Was it any wonder, Lark thought, that she and Rosethorn were fraying at the edges?

“Peachleaf won’t do,” she assented. “Dedicate Crane?”

It was a testament to how badly Rosethorn, too, wanted a break, that she barely tried to roll her eyes.

“I’ll ask. He’s supposed to teach them waterborne diseases and the proper way to create protective spells. Might as well do that tomorrow. Of course, he’ll chew my ear off about scheduling and lesson plans," she grumbled. "Fastidious man. As though I need lecturing. I’d like to see _him_ attempt a ‘consistent schedule’ when every day something else blows up. Overbearing, arrogant—oh, I’m having an argument with him in my head again.”

Lark grinned. “I think you were winning this one.”

“I win all of them,” Rosethorn retorted, with a smile of her own. “I’ll talk to Crane tomorrow.”

Good. Between him and Frostpine, Lark expected they were more than capable of handling their four charges without major incident. While she and Rosethorn went somewhere far, far away, and ignored everything for a full three hours. Or six hours, even.

A nice, long, peaceful time.

“I can’t wait,” she said, honestly, and Rosethorn let out a long, wistful sigh.

* * *

Next morning, Frostpine agreed to a brief lesson in-between his guest-chaperoning duties, and Crane promised a study mid-afternoon. Rosethorn, in a usual stroke of genius, persuaded Dedicate Gorse to step in over lunch with a showing of his new magic-fueled oven.

Lark obtained Moonstream’s blessing to absent from the temple for the day under the thin pretext of gathering supplies. That afforded her and Rosethorn nearly six hours of private time.

A miracle. 

They gave their charges a few last warnings, before leaving. 

“Please consult dedicates Frostpine or Crane before you attempt any magic workings,” Lark said. “There’s a list of chores on the table, in case you finish your lessons early."

“And do not, under any circumstance, find trouble,” Rosethorn added. “Green Man help me, if we have to interrupt another— _errand_ —because you four exploded another shed or upset some air-headed dormitory bullies…”

“We’ll be back by late afternoon,” Lark finished. 

Rosethorn took another look at Briar. "Boy," she said, testily. “Quit acting as though you expect me to never leave your sight again for the rest of my life.”

He frowned. “What if something bad happens in the woods?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a green mage, Briar. _I_ am the thing that happens in the woods. And we’re not going to the wilderness; just to the nearby forest, for supplies.”

“Why can’t someone else go?”

“Because I _want_ to go. Mila save! I should think I don't require your permission.”

He scowled. “But what if you get cold?”

“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Lark intervened, and she smiled at Rosethorn’s crooked glance. “Go on ahead to your lessons. We’ll see you this afternoon.”

“And gods-willing, not a moment before,” bit off Rosethorn, and she let out a cranky sputter as their charges trotted off. “You’d think I was made of breadcrumbs! What does he think is going to happen, I’ll get eaten by a rabid gopher?”

Lark found it best not to comment. There was no winning with Briar and Rosethorn when it came to his slightly-exaggerated concern for her safety.

Rosethorn shot her a belligerent look. Then, her mouth quirked in a smile.

“I’ll hold you to that promise, Lark.”

“Hm?”

“To keep me warm.”

Lark grinned back. “Always.”

* * *

The woods began about three miles from Winding Circle. They stretched from the road, over two nearby hills, all the way to the foothill towns of Cracked Rock and Ebenese on one side, then on the other wound around Summersea and ended on the Green Cliffs, above the sea.

The many sprawling miles of greenness lay largely undisturbed. A few hunting trails existed, and a shortcut or two that woodsmen and daring couriers might take in an emergency. Duke Vedris allowed wood cut from this forest only sparingly, and though somewhere in the depths lay an ancient ore mine, it had been abandoned for over a century. A few cottages dotted the tree line near Winding Circle, and a few more on the far side, by the foothill towns, but few people ventured in more deeply.

Rosethorn, of course, was one of those few. To her, the deep woods were not just a source of rare plants, but one of spiritual renewal, and she had no qualms venturing into untrodden depths.

They stopped their donkeys at a forester’s cottage, some half hour away from the temple. They hitched them by the feeder and water trough. The cottage owner wasn’t home—likely out in the woods, himself, checking on the trees and animals—but he’d recognize temple animals, if he returned, and he wouldn’t be alarmed.

As soon as they stepped onto the dusty little forest path, Rosethorn let out a happy sigh. Her cheeks fllushed. Her shoulders relaxed, and her chin tilted up, as though to let the green magic wash over her. Like a cat in the sun.

She caught Lark's look and grinned.

“I missed this. All of it,” she hurried to add. “Especially time alone with you.”

Lark laughed. “You’re allowed to miss time alone with the forest, too.”

Lark herself sometimes missed the days she’d go to Summersea to visit troupes of wandering acrobats, and lost herself among the memories of her former life for a few hours. She hadn’t done it in a while. Perhaps, for their next day out together...

“How could I resent you finding joy in the woods?” she added. “I love seeing you take pleasure.” She laughed as Rosethorn's cheeks colored deeper. “I didn’t mean it like that. But…of course. That, too.”

Rosethorn adjusted her shoulder bag with a suddenly determined expression. “Let’s find that picnic meadow.”

They wandered in deeper. The woods, too, greeted Rosethorn cheerfully. Ferns and brambles on the side of the path stretched to caress the hem of her habit, and trees threw out new buds, twigs shivering with delight. Several times, crawling vines became so excited they rushed the path and covered it altogether. Rosethorn had to scold them to behave, so she and Lark wouldn’t get lost.

Lark enjoyed it all. The silence of the woods and the earthy scent, the soft sunlight streaming through the foliage, and above all, the sight of Rosethorn, pink with pleasure, diving into every shrub like a duckling into a fresh pond, taking unencumbered joy in the sprawling, shivering greenery. 

“Sorry.” Rosethorn caught her long look and probably mistook it for something other than relieved delight. “I’ll try not to become distracted.”

“I’m hoping you can become as distracted as you wish,” retorted Lark. “I’m pleasantly distracted watching you.”

“I didn’t drag you here to watch me look for spotted wintergreen or auburn bellflower or rabbits-foot ferns…” Rosie straightened, with a last, regretful look to the pointy-leafed weed she'd spent the last minute admiring. “Let’s be on our way.”

“I don’t mind waiting while you do your work," said Lark. "It’s relaxing.” She glanced up at the sunny tops of trees. “I haven’t been in the woods in too long, either.”

Rosethorn tipped back her head, letting a sunbeam caress her face. “It’s so quiet. Calm.”

“Joyful,” Lark murmured. “And walking the woods with you is a special kind of gift. Everything comes alive around you." She tilted her head, watching Rosethorn basking in the sun. "I’d nearly forgotten.”

Rosethorn met her gaze. Her brown eyes shone. 

She stepped into Lark’s space and rested her hands on Lark’s shoulders.

“I wasn’t lying, earlier. I missed the woods—but you’re the most interesting thing to me in this forest, right now.”

Lark smiled back. 

“Why did we wait to do this for so long?” Rosethorn's voice fell several octaves, to a low, soft whisper. She rose on tiptoes, while Lark lowered her head until their foreheads touched. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this. I’m sorry I’ve been so…”

“None of that.” Lark brought her arms around her. “We’ve done our best; Mila knows it’s been a testing many months.”

Rosethorn’s shoulders rose and fell in a quiet sigh.

“I forgot to just stop and be grateful. Thank you for suggesting this outing, to remind me.” Her gaze was warm. “You’re always reminding me.”

“Yes.” It was true: Rosethorn threw herself at whatever difficulties fate brought their way, and she sometimes forgot to pull herself back out. Lark was better at remembering to stop and breathe. “I don’t mind reminding you.”

Rosethorn nodded and kissed her.

Her lips were warm and tasted a little of nutmeg and honey. The things she always added to her breakfast. Lark let her eyes drift shut, enjoying the familiar taste, the peaceful silence, the firm, warm shape of her lover in her arms. 

She couldn’t believe it had been so long since they’d done this.

A garbled, soft sound made its way from Rosethorn’s throat. Her fingers dug into Lark’s shoulders, and she pressed herself tighter into the hug. Lark shifted her balance to better accommodate her weight.

She’d missed this, beyond even what she’d realized. Rosethorn’s warmth against her, their breath woven together. This was the last piece of Lark’s home. As she felt herself settle into the familiar comfort, her heart sang at the knowledge that they were finally in the right place again.

Rosethorn’s arms went up around her neck, and she nearly laughed at the way her lover stretched up, to compensate for the several inches of height between them. She’d forgotten about this. She lowered her arms down to Rosethorn’s waist, bracing her, as she was used to doing. Rosethorn gave a satisfied purr.

There was a noise Lark hadn’t heard in a while.

She stepped back, until her shoulders rested against a solid tree trunk. Rosethorn’s eyelids fluttered open.

“There’s a blanket in my bag. Or…ah, we could find that meadow.” Rosethorn sighed, pulling back slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away—”

Lark pulled her back. “We can find the meadow later.”

“Oh.” Rosethorn exhaled. “Yes. Good.”

“Mmm,” Lark agreed. It was all very good indeed.

Rosethorn said nothing else. She wasn’t a talker, at these times. It was Lark who spoke things; Rosethorn communicated largely with her eyes and her body, and the little noises Lark enjoyed so much.

And with her magic: as she and Lark pressed closer, the woods around them woke alongside Rosethorn’s body, rustling and blooming and singing their joy. Lark had to pause and laugh a little as a smattering of spiky little weeds tried to tangle itself in her hair, as though Rosethorn’s desire for her had passed on to the fussing underbrush.

“Rosie,” she giggled, as the weeds wound about her ears. Grass blades were attempting to grow into and through the cotton-spun blanket.

Rosethorn waved, and her magic pressed back against the plants. _Not now_. Lark almost heard it, and she laughed. The fibers of the blanket wiggled happily, and a corner began to unravel itself, its threads trying to wind about Rosethorn’s ankle.

Their magic was misbehaving, playfully, and even as she mastered hers and reasserted order, Lark allowed herself to enjoy the frolicsome waywardness.

Rosethorn was grinning, too. In this, they had never been at odds: they loved in the same free, joyful, all-absorbing way, and cherished the precious, lively unrestraint of the act.

* * *

A little more of the blanket had unraveled, in the end, and a tuft of nettles stems had somehow managed to weave its way through some loosened threads in the middle, becoming hopelessly entangled with the fabric.

Rosethorn briefly tried persuading them to loosen, then gave up. She rolled back on one side to watch Lark. One arm was bent under her head, and her eyes, still half-closed, were sparkling.

“I missed this,” she said. "You." 

Lark trailed a hand along her arm, smiling when she reached her hand and Rosethorn's fingers tented against hers. She loved the feel of Rosethorn's hands. They were always solid and warm, gentle and firm at once.

“Let's be distracted a while longer,” she suggested.

As if on cue, Rosethorn's stomach gave a loud grumble.

Lark chuckled, going on without missing a beat. “On the other hand, we did plan on lunch." She wiggled her fingers in Rosethorn's. "I hope you’ve saved energy for berry-picking. I was promised huckleberries and wild strawberries.”

Rosethorn sat up, grinning as Lark pulled her hand and kissed the wrist before letting go.

“I believe I mentioned harvesting berry bush leaves for tea. But if anyone can find you sweet berries in these woods in Carp Moon, I will.”

She reached for her habit, and Lark sent out a small trickle of magic to unwrinkle it and make it easy to pull on.

“Thank you,” said Rosethorn. She lifted one arm, examining the habit. “There are grass blades woven into the sleeves.”

That hadn’t happened in a while.

Lark sat up. “I still remember our spell to fix that.”

“So do I.” Rosethorn waited until Lark, too, had pulled on her habit. “What did I use to call this? The our-private-life-is-private spell?”

“The covering-up-our-indiscretions spell.”

Rosethorn winced. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t hurt my feelings.”

“It was a stupid thing to say, anyway.” Rosethorn's gaze grew, briefly, distant. “I didn’t realize, when we were young, that we would end...here.”

“I know.” Lark hadn’t realized it, either. Permanency in love was not a thing she’d been searching for, or expecting. “It was a good surprise.”

“Yes.” Rosethorn shook her head, breaking out of her reverie. "Alright. Let's get our dress back into order."

She lifted her right hand, palm up, and Lark placed her left atop it.

In their youth, she’d needed a roll of thread to make this work, and Rosethorn the tin of herbs she used for spell purposes. They’d both outgrown the need for conduits to focus their magic; now, Lark simply reached inside herself and unwound a small thread of the bright, solid energy at her core. At the spot where their hands touched, she felt the warm, purposeful touch of Rosethorn’s own magic.

With their free hands they each drew a symbol of two overlapping circles, Rosethorn in the dirt, Lark on the skirt of her habit. They interlaced the fingers of their touching hands, letting their magic mix, then drew two separated circles, each.

The blades of grass and various leaves and stems dropped out of the habits, and the nettles untangled themselves from the blanket. Lark and Rosethorn dusted off sleeves and skirts, and Lark smoothed out all the wrinkles again.

When they were done, Rosethorn’s stomach grumbled a second time.

Lark grinned. “No spells on an empty stomach: a wise mage’s first rule. Perhaps we should find that meadow?”

Rosethorn nodded, rolling up the blanket and picking up her supply bag. But she glanced longingly to the patch of weeds a few yards away.

“I _could_ use some wintergreen for my reserves,” she said, almost apologetically. “It’s an effective arthritis aid. I could even send some along to Lake Circle…”

Lark laughed. Her green mage could only be distracted from her plants for so long.

“I don't mind waiting, if you're not too hungry. And this is, in name, a supply run.”

Rosethorn required no further persuasion. Stepping off the path again, she walked to the base of the old oak where wintergreen grew. 

“The problem is, it’s rare, and it grows in small patches.” She crouched, letting her hands run over the pointy leaves. Above her, the oak branches shivered. “I’m surprised to find any; though I suppose early spring isn’t the worst time for it…”

In the end, she nipped off a few leaves, then gently removed a whole plant and wrapped in one of the special cloths she carried in her bag.

“I’ll try again to grow it closer to home. We’ll see—it likes forests, but perhaps that patch of old garden behind Moonstream’s cottage will do…Don’t laugh at me.”

Lark couldn’t help it. The small park behind Moonstream’s cottage was indeed the closest thing to a real patch of forest at Winding Temple, with its handful of old oaks and birches and the wild shrubbery around a small pond. Because of that, Rosethorn had transplanted several dozen forest plants there over the years, to the point where Moonstream had begun to complain about her cottage becoming overrun.

“She can always refuse me, if she dislikes the idea,” defended Rosethorn, as they resumed walking. 

The meadow she knew turned out a bit farther than she’d remembered. Or perhaps she’d mistaken the way: they had to step off the path, at a spot marked by a split oak, and became turned around. But Rosethorn’s skill navigating the untrodden woods came through, and she brought them to a clearing lined with winter heath and daphne and a few shrubs Lark didn’t know.

“They’re all flowering.” She was surprised to see blossoms so vivid in Carp Moon; only the smallest early-spring flowers had begun to bloom at Winding Circle, snow bells and crocuses and the little yellow Karangi roses.

“That’s part of why I like this little clearing so much. It’s festive for most of the year.”

Rosethorn walked around, inspecting some of the shrubs, glancing among the trees at this fern and that flower.

“I should find the berry leaves around, too, and ingredients for the infirmary tonics. And pinesap flowers used to grow in this area. I’d like to explore their antipyretic properties, if I can find some…”

Lark left her to inspect the various plants, and unrolled the blanket once more, laying it down by a knotty oak, in a spot that was neither too shadowy nor too sunny. The sun was at high noon, warming the otherwise still a little crisp air, and there was not a cloud in sight.

A truly perfect day.

She pulled from her own pack the food. A box of hard cheeses and fresh bread she’d sliced in advance at Discipline, a few hardboiled quail eggs, which she knew Rosethorn liked particularly, a tin of freshly-smoked fish from Summersea’s harbor, and dried, honey-glazed apple slices, as a treat.

She tapped the blanket’s edges, whispering a cantrip to keep away ants and other eager insects, then went back to watching Rosethorn shuffle about the bushes, snipping leaves and digging out roots and making small impatient noises when a vine or tree branch got too friendly, tangling in her hair.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Lark called after a few minutes. If left to her own devices among greenery, it was not unheard of for Rosethorn to forget the outside world entirely.

A chagrined smile from the other woman told her that was precisely what had happened.

“Would you mind helping me for a second?” She held up her clippers, her hands red. “These bear-ear caps are buried too deeply in the needle-tip bush. I need another pair of hands keeping the bush stems out of the way.”

Lark stood and crossed the clearing to Rosethorn’s position.

And about four steps from the edge, the ground gave out under her feet.

It was a feeling she’d not experienced since her early tumbling days, when she’d missed a jump or put a foot wrong on the tightrope. Her body lost its bearings, her heart leapt to her throat, and her stomach twisted as she fell through the air. Her arms flailed, instinctively, and she let out an alarmed cry as painful ropes wound about her wrist.

“Lark!”

They weren’t ropes, she realized dimly. They were vines. Rosethorn was trying to catch her, break her fall. Her worldview shifted and tumbled, as she flipped helplessly through the air. Rosethorn’s panicked cry scared her.

And then the vines gave out, and she dropped a long way to the ground, the ear-ringing impact knocking the breath from her lungs.

* * *

2\. Rosethorn

Rosethorn hated, hated, _hated_ being incapacitated.

It didn’t happen often. Only a handful of times in her life, really. But she was still paying for latest one, and it had left her with a hearty dislike of being powerless. Or viewed as powerless, which was nearly as bad.

So when her vision returned and her ears quit ringing and her head cleared, she was immediately beset by three simultaneous thoughts:

One, something bad had happened. She wasn’t sure what, because it had happened too fast, but it was Trouble.

Two, much of her body ached. Right-side ribs and head especially. Moving her neck too fast made her dizzy, and her stomach was unsettled in the worst way.

Three, since none of the pains and aches seemed immediately life-threatening, it was important to dissimulate them and avoid Lark further worry.

Four—this she realized belatedly—Lark was already sitting up, her hands on Rosethorn’s arm. This was good. Neither of them was dead.

“Rosie?”

Rosethorn blinked. She couldn’t see well in their dark surroundings. Her eyes weren’t what they used to be. But above them she saw a circle of light, which told her they were at the bottom of a deep pit, staring up.

Lark called her name again, and she sat up, gritting her teeth against the pain in her side.

“I’m alright.” She rubbed her neck. "What happened?"

"I think...we fell into a giant hole in the ground."

Rosethorn took a moment to think about that. It was so absurd, that a strangled giggle broke from her throat. “Sorry."

“Better laugh about it than cry,” said Lark, sounding perfectly serious. Rosethorn laughed in earnest then. Trust Lark to find the right adage for the moment.

She glanced up to the opening above them. Must've been some thirty feet high. 

“We fell into a hole,” she repeated.

“So it seems.” Lark shifted, glancing up as well. “Some sort of animal trap? I didn’t see it on the ground. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t see it, either.” Rosethorn hadn’t even been looking. Trappers weren’t allowed in this area of the woods. “I tried to help you. But I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

She wasn’t certain how she’d managed to tumble in after Lark. But she’d had a mere split-second to react, and when she’d seen Lark vanish into the ground, her first reaction had been to throw her magic _and_ herself to catch her.

And now they were both inside a thirty-foot-deep pit.

Shock was slowly wearing off, replaced by anger. 

"Who would set this sort of trap in protected woods? How did the woodsmen not see it?” She threw up her hands, or tried to. “What sort of animal is it for, anyway? An _elephant_?”

“It's certainly deeper than any trapping pits I've seen for wolves or bears.” Lark examined their surroundings. “I think it’s made for someone good at climbing. It’s shaped like a fishbowl—wide in the middle, then narrowing at the top." She pointed up. "It would make a tricky climb: those last few feet, you’d have to be hanging upside down.”

Rosethorn took her word for it. She couldn’t see the shape of the pit walls, and she was no expert climber.

Lark stood, rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs. Then she crouched back down, touching Rosethorn's shoulder.

“Are you hurt? I heard you cry out when you fell.”

“Who wouldn't,” grumbled Rosethorn. “I’m fine. Are _you_? What’s wrong with your right arm? You're not using it.”

“Wrist.” Lark wiggled her fingers, wincing. “I sprained it when I broke my fall. It’s not broken. And my shoulder’s a little bruised. Tailbone, too, maybe. Nothing too bad. I’m used to falling well.”

Rosethorn wasn’t. Still, for her first time pitching headfirst into a hole, she hadn’t done too poorly. Perhaps the vines had slowed her fall.

Lark moved about the space, touching the pit walls.

“The earth is too soft to climb. But maybe if we can get in some hand grips, we can pull ourselves up…”

“Lark. I’m not acrobat-scaling that wall, and we both know it.” Rosethorn stood, pleased to find her legs could hold her, though her head did pound a little. “But I might be able to make you some hand grips. Then you can climb out and find help.”

Lark make a quiet noise of protest. But they both knew that was the right choice. Safer to make a swift escape than wait for whoever had dug the hole to show up.

Now that her head was clearing, Rosethorn also understood Lark’s earlier point about the fishbowl shape.

“You think whoever dug this made it to trap people.” People who might more easily climb a straight wall, than a curving one.

“Possibly.”

She rubbed her temples. “Lark, being trapped in a people-hunting pit isn't how I expected our day to go."

“Predictability is the luxury of the gods,” joked Lark. But worry laced the humor in her voice. 

Rosethorn sighed and approached the wall, putting a a hand against the cold, hard earth.

She could feel the roots, beyond her touch. Plant roots, tree rots, large and small, old and new, alive and dead. Little wispy roots of seeds that had sprouted after the pit had been dug, and silent, ancient roots long turned to stone and mulch.

Pain began tingling behind her eyes, making her wince. She must’ve made a noise: Lark came closer and put a hand on her elbow.

“How hard did you hit your head?” She touched the back of Rosethorn’s head, hissing in sympathy when Rosethorn flinched. “It’s a small bump. No blood. But I can’t imagine working magic will agree with it.”

“No.” Rosethorn brought up a hand, probing the tender spot. Lucky she was hard-headed. “I don’t think it’s a concussion, but I’m definitely going to have a headache after this.”

“Don’t overdo it,” said Lark softly.

Rosethorn shrugged. Of course she’d have to overdo it. They were stuck in a pit in the wild woods, with no way to get help.

She summoned tree roots from above. Far above. Most roots in the area, oaks and beeches and birches, didn’t reach deeper than a few feet. She didn’t want to force them so much farther than was their natural environment. But perhaps she could coax a few who were feeling adventurous…

She stretched her power farther, seeking ash trees and yew, which burrowed deeper into the earth. She called them to herself, along with all the others. Reaching for the deep well of sun-warm magic inside her, she asked the roots to grow toward her.

They answered, old roots and new and quiet, deep roots burrowing toward her. They moved too slowly, so Rosethorn fed her power into the earth, urging them to hurry. The trees didn’t understand her rush, but they hurried anyway, accepting her magic.

The pain in her head was breaking her focus. She heard a low moan and realized it was her own. The sound of overdoing it, probably. She opened her eyes to see if she’d called enough roots for Lark to scale the wall, but spots were dancing before her eyes.

Lark’s arms circled her from behind. “So much for taking it easy. Let me help.”

Rosethorn relaxed back into her. Her ears rang from the effort and the weird silence in the pit. And she was drenched in sweat.

“How long was I at it?”

“Long,” said Lark. “Over an hour. I tried scaling the wall a few times, but it’s tricky.”

Despite the wooziness, Rosethorn smiled. Lark sounded frustrated to find a gymnastics trick that eluded her.

“I'll make it easier for you, if I can summon enough roots. I just need a little more time. The headache’s getting in the way.” 

“I’ll help,” said Lark again. “Can you take a break so I can lay down a – oh.” Her voice hitched. “Rosie, stop using magic. Now. Stop.”

Rosethorn had begun calling to the roots again, but Lark’s urgent tone halted her.

“What’s wrong?”

“There's magic in this pit.” Lark crouched, making some sort of gesture with her fingers that Rosethorn couldn’t see. Bright spots lit up all around the pit.

"Rocks?" Unease slid down Rosethorn's spine. “A gemstone spell.”

“Some sort of ward, I think. Very rudimentary. I felt it when I tried to set up a weaving spell to let us mix our magic.” Lark glanced from rock to gleaming rock, as though counting them. “I didn't notice them before. They look just like regular rocks.”

Rosethorn hadn't noticed, either. “No wonder using magic felt like slogging upstream through a mudslide.”

A basic stone ward wouldn't stop her magic, but it hindered it. She could've kicked herself for missing it; she'd blamed the pounding headache on her injuries.

“Who'd do this? A stone mage? No—any mage worth half a crescent copper can set a spell into gemstones." 

A mage who dug pits in restricted forests, to trap people.

Whichever way she cut it, that wasn't good.

“Perhaps no mage at all,” said Lark. “Black market vendors sell gemstone spells. Anyone with enough coin can buy a pouch with the spell they want in it. And to activate it, all they need to do is empty out the pouch into the spot they need.”

Green Man take it. 

Rosethorn fought the urge to kick one of the rocks.

“Either way, it will be easier to work my magic once we break this gemstone ward." She glanced at the rocks. "I don't expect some amateur spell would've been constructed to withstand our kind of magic.”

"No." Lark hesitated briefly. “I’ll break the gemstone spell. You'll need your energy to call those..."

She fell silent, glancing up. Rosethorn didn’t understand why, at first. Then, she, too, heard noises above the pit.

Someone was coming.

They instinctively pressed themselves against the wall, to present smaller targets. From what Rosethorn knew of trapping pits, hunters often shot the trapped animals with arrows, to finish them off.

She and Lark could probably shield against arrows, at least for a while. But if magic was involved…

A head appeared above the pit. Rosethorn couldn’t make out features. Its owner was too far up, and sunlight too bright. But the voice that spoke excitedly was definitely male, and with a rough, coastal accent.

“We got one! Mado! We got one! Come see!”

Rosethorn caught Lark’s hand, squeezing twice. A message to stay quiet. _We got one_ meant the man didn’t notice there were two people in the pit. That might play to their advantage, if it came to a fight.

Lark nodded imperceptibly. She’d picked up on that, too.

“I can’t believe it.” The head disappeared briefly, but the man’s voice carried down to them still. “I thought Old Witch Sabora was off her wheat flakes, when she suggested this. But it worked! We got a real forest spirit!”

Rosethorn blinked. _What?_

She glanced sideways, but she couldn’t see Lark’s face, in the shadows. 

The head reappeared above them. “It looks just like people! Mado, hurry up and come see! We’ll be rich!”

A second head—Mado, presumably—joined the first. “Whoa. It’s really there. Wait—how do you know it’s a forest spirit?”

The first man scoffed. “What else would wander around these woods, so far off the path?! And Old Witch Sabora said her magic stones would attract the old spirits of the trees.”

“ _Whoa_.”

Rosethorn pinched the bridge of her nose.

These weren’t dangerous, people-hunting mages. They were village idiots.

She stayed silent, because things weren’t always what they seemed at first glance. But instinct—and Lark’s fractionally-relaxing shoulders next to her—told her the danger was less than she’d feared.

Or more, perhaps. Stupid people could get unpredictably dangerous.

“And here I thought you’d made me do all that digging for aught,” said Mado. His head peered further down. “Hey! Hello! Forest spirit! We caught you! So now you gotta grant us wishes—right, Parys?”

“Right!” The first man—Parys—reappeared, dangling something over the mouth of the pit. He dropped it, and a second later a cloth bundle thudded to the pit floor, spilling out a handful of old potatoes.

Lark made a quiet noise of consternation.

“It’s an offering!” Parys shouted down. “You eat the fruit of the earth, and you grant us one wish…and then we let you go.”

Rosethorn was going to skin them alive. And bury them in the stable dung heap. Then she'd dig them out and skin them some more, and bury them again, upside down.

"Why's it so quiet?" Mado asked. 

“Maybe it doesn’t speak Kurchali,” said Parys. 

“I thought magical forest spirits speak everything."

“Maybe it’s sleeping.” Parys cupped his hands around his mouth. “Forest spirit! Wake up!”

“It really does look just like people,” said Mado, and Rosethorn couldn’t contain herself anymore.

“It _is_ people, you incomparable dimwit!” Shouting made her head pound worse. “Go bring a ladder and get us out of this trap! Now!”

“Please,” Lark added, calmy. “We’re not too comfortable down here. And we’ve rather a lot of bruises.”

The two men fell silent for a long moment.

“It sounds just like people, too,” said Mado, wonderingly.

Rosethorn snarled.

“I think it’s angry,” said Parys.

“It’s _very_ angry,” Rosethorn screeched. “Green Man help me, if you don’t find a way to free us, I’m going to make you regret being born!”

“You can’t be angry,” Parys whined. “We caught you fair and square. Old Witch Sabora said you owe us each a wish!”

Rosethorn was going to kill Old Witch Sabora. Slowly.

“This is a misunderstanding,” Lark shouted up. “We’re not forest spirits.” She paused briefly. Probably to wonder at the sheer absurdity of having to utter that sentence. “I am Dedicate Lark, of the Winding Circle temple. My friend is Dedicate Rosethorn. We were in the woods gathering—hello?!”

The two heads had disappeared.

“I could have those crawling vines strangle them right now,” said Rosethorn. 

Lark turned to her, mouth working silently for a second.

“Rosie, don’t speak like that,” she chided, at last. Then, gravely: “Strangling them before they help us get out solves nothing.”

Rosethorn laughed, despite herself. That caused sharp pain to shoot through her head, so she hissed and touched the painful bump.

Lark squeezed her arm. “I'm sorry you're in pain, love. This isn’t what I wished for our day away.”

“No.” Rosethorn sighed, staring up at the darkening, late-afternoon sky. “I did enjoy the other parts. Before the pit.”

It was Lark’s turn to laugh, though worriedly.

“I enjoyed the parts before the pit, too.” She sighed as well, then shouted up to the surface. “Hello? Parys and Mado? We can hear you, up there. I promise you, treating two temple dedicates this way will only bring you trouble.”

“Your threats are too kind,” Rosethorn remarked.

“Oh, it wasn’t a threat,” Lark said casually. “It was a promise.”

Rosethorn gave her a sideways glance. It took a lot to ruffle Lark’s feathers, and only profound distress pushed her even temper as far as anger and threats. Rosethorn didn't like it; she’d have protected Lark from such distress, if she could.

"I suppose two dimwits hunting fairy tales is preferable to someone malevolent setting these traps,” she tried.

But Lark shook her head. “Those dimwits caused us both injury, and they’ve yet to show any willingness to amend their mistake.” She truly sounded upset. “It’s not the sort of thing to be forgiven easily.”

“Stupidity rarely is,” grumbled Rosethorn. She put her hand into Lark’s, leaning in. “Are you in pain? Let me make a brace for your wrist. I’m sorry it didn’t occur to me earlier.” She must’ve hit her head harder than she’d thought.

“It can wait. It’s not the worst sprain I’ve had.” Lark sighed. “I’m mourning our nice day out.”

“I know. We...we'll take another.”

Lark opened her mouth, but hesitated. When she spoke, it was with a smile in her voice.

“If I say ‘I want this one, not another’, does that make me sound too much like one of our charges?”

“They do make good points, occasionally,” allowed Rosethorn. “Instant gratification being one example.”

Lark chuckled. Then, she sighed again and called up “Hello!” one more time.

Mado returned, peering over the edge.

“How do we know you’re real people?” he asked.

“How—” Rosethorn couldn’t believe her ears. “Of course we're people, you walking pile of rotted birdseed. Can’t you tell people when you see them?”

She marched to the center of the pit, out of the shadows. Lark joined her, limping slightly.

“Forest spirits are tricky,” said Parys. “You could be lying just so we let you go.”

“Yeah,” said Mado. “You just want out of the trap.”

“Of course that’s what we want,” shouted Rosethorn. “We’re cold and bruised from head to toe. Get us out of here! Or setting illegal traps in Duke Vedris’s protected woodland is going to be the least of your worries.”

“They’re not illegal!” Parys bristled.

“Yeah! Duke says we can’t trap animals. We're not: we're trapping forest spirits.”

Sweet Mila, but they were irredeemable.

“You've trapped two Winding Circle dedicates,” Lark said firmly. “That's not going to work out in your favor. If you help us out of this pit right now, we'll make sure you avoid further trouble." 

The two men turned to each other, their mumbled conversation too soft to hear.

“We’ll bring Old Witch Sabora,” Parys said at last. “She’ll know if you’re a tricky forest spirit, or two temple people.”

 _What_? “No!” Rosethorn waved her arms, angrily. “Green Man help me, if you leave us here, I will track you down and turn you into fertilizer! Don’t—no! Come back! _Argh_!”

She screamed her frustration, then sank down to her knees. 

“I am going to eviscerate them. Slowly. With a pair of blunt clippers.”

Lark knelt next to her. “I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. Or scream.”

“I won't blame you if you do all three." Rosethorn took several deep breaths. Managing anger was an old exercise, and she was good at it. After a moment, she held out a hand.

"Let me see that wrist.”

“It just needs a wrap.” Lark reached her hand, anyway, and Rosethorn touched it gently. It felt swollen and warm.

"I don't have a suitable wrap," she said. "But perhaps with some of the sticks on the ground, we can improvise a brace. Keep it from bending the wrong way. Oh.”

She reached into the pocket of her habit and pulled out a handful of leaves. She had to sort through them with her magic, since she could barely see in the dark pit.

“I didn’t get to store these properly, before we fell. I think…yes.” She picked a handful of leaves. "Rabbit’s foot fern. Contains a component that helps blood flow to injury sites. It helps sprains—and the leaves' surface is coated in an oil that cools the area, so that should keep down the swelling.”

She bunched the leaves together and put them between her palms, rolling her hands up and down to crush them.

“This won’t do as well as a proper plaster, but I think it’s the best we’ll manage, for now.” When her fingertips started tingling, she handed Lark the crushed leaves. “Hold this on your wrist for a second. I’ll tie it with my handkerchief.”

“Use only half the leaves,” said Lark. “You can put the rest on your ribs.”

Of course Lark had noticed.

“It’s nothing," said Rosethorn. "A bruise.”

“From experience, I promise you the sooner you get bruised ribs treated, the less you’ll suffer later. Those muscles tear easily, and they don’t heal fast.”

Arguing with Lark about muscle injuries was a losing proposition, so Rosethorn split her makeshift fern plaster in half. She left half on Lark's wrist, added a couple of sticks to brace the wrist, then wrapped the brace with her handkerchief. Lark’s magic made it fit perfectly and tighten just right.

“Those leaves do feel cool on my sprain,” said Lark. “Thank you. Let’s see to those ribs, now.”

Lark’s magic made Rosethorn’s shift act as a temporary wrap, holding the fern leaves in place over her aching ribs. She had to admit, after a minute, the cooling sensation was welcome.

She looked up at the sky again. She'd lost track of time, but it would be well into the afternoon.

“I’d rather be out of this before dark. Harder to find our way back, at night. And we'll have animals to deal with.”

If it came to it, they could defend themselves against a wolf, or even a bear. But that didn’t mean they ought to seek trouble or hurt blameless woods creatures.

She walked to the side of the pit, where she’d been working earlier.

“I’ll finish what I started. I think I can call enough roots to make you a net of sorts, to climb up.”

“Let me break the gemstone warding spell, first,” said Lark.

After short deliberation, she simply walked about the pit, picking up the rocks in her handkerchief. Once she had them all, she tied the handkerchief at the four corners, making a little pouch, and let her magic run through it.

The absence of the spell was more noticeable than its presence. Rosethorn knew precisely when the warding had broken.

She touched the earth wall and dove deep into her magic again, calling the network of ash and yew roots toward her. This time, for good measure, she called to some of the crawling vines from nearby, too, which grew toward the pit and down over the edge.

By the time she’d called a few vines and a half dozen thick roots, she was drenched in sweat again and swaying on her feet.

“What was that rule? No magic on an empty stomach?” She chuckled hoarsely as Lark helped her sit. “I wish we’d had lunch.”

“So do I.” Lark dabbed Rosethorn's damp forehead with the edge of her sleeve. “I think that's enough for you. Let’s take a break, then I’ll try the weaving spell, see if we can get roots and vines to braid and make an easier climbing path.”

“Will you be able to climb with a sprained wrist?”

“It won’t be the first time.”

Rosethorn smiled. “Of course.” She took a few deep breaths, then straightened. “I’m ready. We can’t afford a longer break,” she preempted. “It’s near dusk, and we’re at least an hour from the edge of the woods. If you’re going to reach that forester’s cottage and get help before nightfall, you need to go soon.”

“If you overtax your magic and take ill, I’m not going at all,” said Lark, calmly. “So take a proper break. The forester’s cottage will still be there.”

“But can you find your way to it, in the dark?”

Lark said nothing, which was as good as an admission. Woods weren't her domain. She needed daylight. 

“We need to do the weaving spell now,” repeated Rosethorn. “Not the wisest choice, but it’s the only one we have.”

Lark gave in. They walked back to the wall covered in roots and vines, and sat cross-legged beside it, facing each other. As before, Rosethorn held out one hand, palm up, and Lark covered it with hers. Their free hands they put on the wall.

Rosethorn called her magic to the surface, letting it touch Lark’s. She didn’t have much to do, for this to work. Merely maintain her half of the spell that let their magics mix, and open a conduit between Lark’s magic and the system of roots.

She sensed Lark’s touch trickling along that conduit, into the old roots. They didn’t like it—it was foreign—but Rosethorn reassured them, so they accepted it.

Lark got to work quickly. With Rosethorn's magic making the roots receptive to her touch, she wove them together, braiding them, up the side of the wall, into a sort of makeshift rope-ladder. The vines braided together, as well, then wound themselves into that crawling ladder, creating a thick rope that hung from the mouth of the pit to the spot several feet below where the wall began curving backwards. 

At last, Lark’s magic retreated, and Rosethorn surfaced from the roots, finding herself leaning against the wall.

Lark kissed her temple. “Alright?”

“Mmm.”

 _Alright_ was a stretch, but Rosethorn had been worse. This wasn’t even the most she’d strained her magic. It didn’t even come close.

She blinked, eyeing the top of the pit. The sky was taking on a dark-orange tint.

“Go," she told Lark. "Remember I’ve marked the way back to the path with my magic. You should be able to sense it, if you’re looking. Then the path goes straight to the forester’s cottage. And keep an eye out for animals,” she added, with a little anxiety. "And bandits."

Lark could take care of herself. That didn't mean Rosethorn loved the thought of her traipsing through wild woods alone at dusk. 

Lark kissed her again, then began to climb.

With her injured wrist, it took more tries than usual. But in a few minutes, she’d reached the top of the root network, where the wall began to curve. She gripped the vine rope with strong arms and traversed along its length, her legs kicking the air.

At last, she reached the top of the pit and pulled herself up the ledge. Below, Rosethorn grinned and gave her a round of applause.

She half-expected Lark to take a bow. Instead, Lark turned slightly, cautiously, kneeling on the edge of the pit. 

“There’s a bear,” she said, as quietly as possible.

Rosethorn couldn’t help a groan.

Of course there was a bear. The last missing piece in their otherwise perfect catastrophe of a day.

“It’s eating our food,” said Lark. “I left it out on the blanket. I’d forgotten.”

Rosethorn had forgotten, too. Their picnic plans seemed years away.

“Don’t disturb the bear,” she said, unnecessarily. Lark knew perfectly well not to irritate eight-hundred-pound wildlife with fangs.

"No." Lark was sitting very still. “I don’t think I can cross the clearing without disturbing it.”

Wonderful.

“You could scare it away,” Rosethorn suggested. 

“I’d rather not leave you trapped and alone in a pit with a ticked-off bear nearby.”

“It’s not as though it could climb down here. Although with our luck today, it might be the world’s most acrobatic bear. Escaped from a circus, maybe.”

Lark laughed, but cut herself off. “I think all the chatter is upsetting our furry friend.” She inhaled. “I’m going to grab your supply bag from the bushes and come back. You have water in there, right?”

Rosethorn did. “Don’t come back. Just run to the forester’s house.”

“I’m not leaving you with no food or water...Oh, there are two bears.”

Of course there were.

Rosethorn shook her head and said nothing else. Lark was up on the ground and could decide for herself if retrieving the bag was worth the risk.

Apparently, Lark decided that it was. She vanished for a short while—Rosethorn heard some irritated grunting she could only assume came from the bears—then returned at a run, launching herself from the lip of the bit straight to the vine rope.

Rosethorn’s bag dropped to the ground about a second before a huge, furry silhouette blocked out the sun at the edge of the pit.

The bear roared down into the pit, after Lark. She climbed down without minding its protestations.

“You should’ve made a run for it,” said Rosethorn, but only half-heartedly. Running from two angry bears while trying to find an unmarked path in the dusky woods was no easy feat.

She went to retrieve her bag and handed Lark her canteen.

"So. Looks like we're spending the night." 

Lark made a helpless gesture with her free hand. 

Rosethorn sighed. "Tell me how we'll explain to Moonstream that two of her strongest mages get bested by a dank pit, two dimwits, and a bear."

Lark snorted and held up two fingers. "Two bears."

"I stand corrected." She groaned, watching the last sliver of light vanish from the sky. "Well, since we're stuck for the time being, might as well try to improve our lot."

She picked up her travel bag again and began rummaging through the various pockets. At last, she found what she wanted: a pack wrapped in soft cotton cloth. Unwrapping it revealed a small wooden basked with four sweetbutter-glazed buns.

“Gorse’s contribution to our supply run.” She smiled at Lark’s delighted gasp. “He gave it to me when I spoke to him this morning. I was keeping it as a surprise.”

“Mila bless Gorse.” Lark inhaled the sweet scent of baked dough. “It’s been a long time since I was hungry enough to feel so glad over a few pastries.”

Rosethorn nodded silently. She’d never gone hungry like that. But right now she'd happily eat one of those two bears prowling above.

“Let me fix that wrist brace and put on some proper salve." She inventoried the rest of her supply bag, pulling out a tin and a roll of bandages. "And you can put some on your hip, too. Don’t think I didn’t notice that limp.”

“It’s only a bruise.” Lark made a funny noise under her breath. “If it weren’t so cold, I might ask _you_ to rub that salve on my hip. Perhaps on other parts, too… I’ve many bruises that need soothing.”

Rosethorn shot her a look. _Now_ was the time Lark wanted to talk about rubbing things on body parts?

A second later, she started laughing.

“We’ve as much privacy as we’ll ever get, I suppose. Though it _is_ far too cold.”

Lark’s arms came up around her, and her lover nuzzled her neck.

“Better?”

“Much. But now I’m starting to wonder if you hit your head while you were retrieving this bag. Or maybe chewed on some leaves you weren’t supposed to.”

Lark chuckled in her ear.

“I did promise to keep you warm, didn’t I?”

True. “Not that I’m discrediting your current methods,” murmured Rosethorn, groping blindly in her bag, “but these might help.”

She held up a box of matches.

Lark snatched them. “Your supply bag is a thing of wonder, Rosie. As are you.”

Rosethorn’s cheeks heated. She didn’t know why: Lark was never sparing with her compliments. But there was something about sitting there in the quiet, shadowy pit that lent extra weight to the words.

Really, it was Lark who was the wonder. Rosethorn couldn’t imagine another person bringing her what Lark did. An anchor. A reason to remember to be grateful every day.

She pulled herself out of her reveries and got another small tin and a stoppered vial from her bag.

“We can add honey to those buns. I always keep a small amount in my travel bag. And there’s the emergency tonic.” She showed Lark the pocket where she kept the vial. “I doubt we’ll need it, but you should know it’s here, just in case. And I’m afraid that’s the end of my wonders. It's all just herbs and gardening tools in here.”

“We’ve dinner, water, and a fire,” said Lark. “That’s plenty wonders.”

Well. “At least you didn’t scale the wall and fight those bears for nothing,” Rosethorn sighed, and she went to gather the potatoes from Parys's bag. 

* * *

Lark had gathered every stray stick in the pit and made a small fire. _Very_ small. Blessedly, the fire dedicates who made the matches infused a small amount of magic into them, so any fire the matches started would burn many times longer than it ought to.

Rosethorn ended up using the herbs in her travel stock, sprinkling them on the ground in a small area around the firepit. Once imbued with her magic, they’d help trap the heat in the ground, keep her and Lark a little warmer. It wouldn’t work as well as a blanket, but better than sitting on damp earth.

Lark unspooled her thread, cut it into three equal pieces, quickly braided them, then lay the thin braid down along the edges of the herb patch. To help trap the air heat, most likely. Rosethorn’s magic was less well-suited for that.

Once Lark started the fire, Rosethorn put on the potatoes, then opened the pack of glazed buns and the honey. They nibbled in silence for a few minutes. Rosethorn reminded herself to be grateful for the meal, and grateful for Lark’s company. Grateful that they were both relatively uninjured, if trapped for the night.

Things could have been worse.

By the time they’d finished the potatoes, too, darkness had fallen and the crisp nights of Carp Moon fully settled in.

“It must be past eight,” said Lark. “They’ll be looking for us, by now.”

Rosethorn wasn’t so sure.

“I think I threatened bodily harm if anyone came looking.” She remembered the words ‘under no circumstance’ leaving her mouth. At the time, she had not sufficiently envisioned all possible circumstances.

“I could try reaching out to Briar,” she said. “Through the roots. We’ve never tried it over such long distance, but in theory it should work.”

Lark gave her a surprised look.

“I didn’t realize you two could do that.”

“In a pinch. It’s no great effort over a short stretch, if we pick the right plants to channel through. But it becomes exponentially harder over larger distances.”

“I’m not sure stretching our magic a dozen miles to Winding Circle is the wisest idea.” Lark toyed with her mage medallion. "We could use the succor spell." 

Rosethorn had considered that, too. She didn’t know how to feel about it.

Dedicate initiates had a spell sealed into their medallions, that could be used to call out to others. A last resort option, for life-or-death dangers. If she or Lark activated the spell, every dedicate-initiate at Winding Circle would feel it, and could use their own medallions to track them down.

And find them sitting helpless in a pit. 

Actually, Rosethorn did know how she felt about that. She'd rather fight ten bears. 

Lark read her face. "I suppose this might not rise _quite_ to succor-spell levels... How does your head feel?"

"Better." A sip of emergency tonic had helped. Food and drink, too. "No need rousing the entire temple, when in a few hours, when the sun rises, we can help ourselves." 

Lark thought for a moment. “Of course, if we don't return tonight, someone will call the alarm, anyway.”

True. Moonstream kept good track of her dedicates. If two of them set out for an afternoon trip and were still gone by midnight service, she’d take notice.

“They’d send a small search party,” Rosethorn said. “Better than alarming everyone.”

Lark eventually agreed, and there was no further talk of the succor spell. Thank Mila. 

Rosethon hesitated a moment, then shifted closer. 

"Do you still need salve for your...various bruises?" 

Lark grinned. 

It was not how Rosethorn had expected to spend the evening. But sitting beside the fire that burned far more warmly than it should have, her hunger gone and her neck pleasantly tingling from the heat of Lark’s look…she found she didn’t mind.

They’d wanted a day off, after all.

* * *

They huddled together for warmth, as night fell properly and the air turned chilly.

Even with the magic-assisted fire and their tricks for trapping the heat, and with Lark’s magic tightening their habits and keeping out wind, Rosethorn shivered. She wouldn’t be able to rest much that night.

To her relief, she didn't have to.

A couple of hours after the sun had vanished, a decidedly human voice called out nearby. 

Rosethorn sat up straighter, leaning gratefully into Lark when Lark rubbed her cold arms.

“If it’s Parys and Mado again, I’m going to cook them slowly on this fire,” she swore.

But the head that appeared at the edge of the pit belonged to a more unexpected rescuer. 

The forester at whose cottage Lark and Rosethorn had hitched their mounts, having noticed that, by dusk, the owners of the animals had not returned, had picked up a lantern and an axe and gone to look for them. His dogs yipped excitedly at his side, as he leaned into the pit and called down:

“Dedicate Rosethorn?”

Rosethorn was overjoyed to hear him. And a little embarrassed that she couldn’t remember his name, though he plainly remembered hers. 

"Don't worry, dedicates," he grunted, once he'd understood their predicament. "Have you out of there in a deer's shake." 

He was a paragon among foresters, Rosethorn decided.

He didn’t have a ladder, but he never went anywhere without a long, sturdy coil of rope strung on his belt. He fashioned quickly a makeshift rope ladder. With some effort, Rosethorn clambered out. Lark had already scaled the wall again, faster than last time.

The forester introduced himself to Lark as Medron, a name which Rosethorn swore to remember forever.

Aside from salvation from the pit, he’d also brought water, dried meat, and thick blankets. The man was plainly accustomed to finding lost travelers in the woods.

Rosethorn eagerly wrapped a blanket around herself, and she smiled as Lark’s magic tightened it around her shoulders.

“I missed this one,” grumbled Medron, spitting at the pit. “’pologies, dedicates. Been trying to sniff out for weeks who’s been digging them cursed holes in the ground. Popped up all over the place, miles and miles of them. I cover them up when I find one, but it’s hard work, and I never know where they’ll be.”

“Rest assured,” bit off Rosethorn, “I’m going to personally remove the arms of the two men who dug this one.”

He made an uneasy noise and backed up a step. She reminded herself those who lived on the edge of the woods did not take lightly the threats of green mages, and she amended:

“Or I’ll have a talk with Duke Vedris about the goings-on in his woods. He can have the offending parties arrested and tried. In any case, they shouldn’t give you more trouble.”

“Obliged,” he grunted back, touching his hat.

Between the three of them and the two dogs, they scared off all animals in their path. As Medron knew the quickest way to his cottage, the walk back was shorter and less difficult than Rosethorn had feared. Her head still ached, and Lark limped slightly. But on the whole, they were not too poorly off.

That opinion changed when they reached Medron’s cottage to find Dedicates Crane and Pepperleaf, who had come searching for their missing colleagues.

Crane! Of all the people Moonstream would send out to look. 

Lark, of course, greeted them both very gracefully, but Rosethorn didn't bother suppressing a groan. She'd never live down the embarassment. 

At least Crane proved himself useful taking another look at Lark’s wrist and retying the wrap. He gave Rosethorn’s ribs a squinting look. She returned her don’t-even-think-about-it glower, and he rolled his eyes at muttered something about _irresponsible_ and _mulish_.

Mulish! 

Pompous donkey’s tail.

Medron offered his cottage for the night. But he had one narrow bed, and his main room could barely fit himself and four dedicates. Regretfully, Rosethorn clambered back into the donkey’s saddle. Pepperleaf suggested tying her to the saddle so she wouldn’t fall off. She threatened to toss him into the pit she’d just escaped.

Lark suggested they all make the journey in quiet reflection.

Crane, for once showing an ounce of common sense, took the lead, with Pepperleaf, leaving Rosethorn and Lark to trail them. So when Lark had to reach over and pull on the reins of Rosethorn’s donkey, because Rosethorn was too worn out to steer it, no one noticed.

“We’ll have to track down where those two birdseed-for-brains live,” Rosethorn whispered. “And if that Old Witch woman is a mage, we’ll need to have a talk with her.”

“Yes. But it can wait until tomorrow.” Lark sighed. “Perhaps even the day after.”

It certainly could wait.

“Thank you,” said Rosethorn, suddenly. “For—keeping me warm.”

Her lips quirked in a smile. Now that they were above-ground again and going home, the fear and frustration were giving way to gratitude. And the knowledge that, dank pit and all, this day had given them what they’d wanted.

And a little more than they’d wanted. But Rosethorn tried to follow Lark’s example and take the bad with the good.

“Always,” said Lark, smiling back.

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, and Rosethorn only dozed off and almost fell off her donkey twice. A win, all things considered.

* * *

3\. Lark

Their four charges had been waiting up, which wasn’t unexpected. Frostpine and Moonstream sat at the table as well, which was a little stranger, but Lark didn’t mind having a healer on hand.

Rosethorn gave a curt, impatient account of their misadventure, glossing over half their trouble and focusing largely on demanding that the trappers be tracked down and investigated. Moonstream assured her she’d write to Duke Vedris that very night. Then, she and Frostpine took their leave.

The children had many more questions, but Rosethorn silenced them all with an ill-tempered wave of her hand.

“There’s no more to it. We fell into a pit. It was damp, smelly, and I’ve more bruises than a ripe peach after a hailstorm.” She turned toward the door. “I’m going to the baths, and then I’m going to sleep, and I don’t want to hear a noise until tomorrow morning.”

She took a step, then turned back.

“Did you find any trouble while we were gone?”

“No!” chorused the four, with varying levels of indignation.

“Good. See if you can continue that for another few hours,” said Rosethorn, and with a tired look at Lark, she shuffled out the door, toward the baths.

They took longer at the baths than they might have normally. But only because they were so tired, everything took twice as long, from undressing to scrubbing to washing hair. Even Lark, who usually prided herself on her stamina, barely managed to drag herself back out of the baths.

“I’m grateful we get to rest in our own beds tonight, after all,” she told Rosethorn, on the way back.

“Yes.” Rosethorn gave her a tired smile. “Though that picnic blanket wasn’t so bad, either.”

Lark chuckled under her breath.

* * *

It wasn’t until many days later that it occurred to Lark their charges may not have been so ignorant of her and Rosethorn’s previous need for a day off.

It started after lunch, as Tris cleared the table and Rosethorn charged Briar with picking carrots for dinner.

“Oh,” said Sandry. “I forgot: I won’t be here for dinner. I hope that’s alright.”

Tris made a noise, and Sandry shot her a fulminant look. A conversation seemed to be happening between them, which Lark hoped wouldn't end in screaming. 

“Whether or not that’s alright depends on the reason,” said Rosethorn. Her tone made plain Sandry had better have good reason for missing a meal.

“I promised Uncle I’d eat with him tonight. Sorry, it slipped my mind. But we'll go to the Water dormitories’ Waterday meal - so we’ll be out of your way. And he’ll bring me back when we’re done.”

Lark was surprised. “Sandry, your uncle is always welcome at our table. You needn’t take him elsewhere.”

“No, I know. But, uh, I want him to try the…tadpole pie. It’s a special Watersday dish they serve only in the dormitories.”

Lark stared at her student. _Tadpole pie?_

“I heard it’s very good,” said Daja.

Lark turned to her, and the girl squirmed a little, under her gaze.

“Uh. I also forgot to mention. Frostpine needs me tonight. For work.” She gave a helpless half-shrug to Sandry. “…And also for dinner?”

“Alright, that’s plenty,” said Rosethorn, impatiently. “What’s happening? If this is another mischief in the making…”

“No!” squeaked Sandry. “It’s not. We swear. Just…I’d been meaning to have dinner with Uncle."

“And Frostpine needs to show me this special copper mage-working tonight, because it takes all day for the metal to temper. He can only work it in the evenings. It’s a timing thing.”

Well, that sounded believable.

Not that Lark thought Daja would lie. If she said Frostpine had work for her, he did. But something more was plainly afoot.

At the sink, Tris sighed. “I need to work late,” she mumbled, glaring at Sandry. “In the library. Niko gave me…homework.”

“Homework that can’t be done here,” Rosethorn underlined, “where all your other homework has been done for the past two years.”

Tris shrugged. “It’s from books I can’t take home. So…that’s where I’ll be. Until bedtime.”

“I _said_ you could join Uncle and me,” grumbled Sandry.

Lark bit back a smile. The children were _scheming_.

Rosethorn turned to Briar, her expression pinched. “And who’s invited you to dinner?”

He grinned. “Dedicate Gorse.”

“Oh, Mila save.” Rosethorn slapped her forehead. “We’re losing this one forever. He’ll move in with Gorse starting tomorrow.”

“No, I won’t! I’d never!”

“You say that now,” she predicted. “But once you’ve tried his dinner fare…”

“I wouldn’t leave you for all the dinners Dedicate Gorse can ever make,” Briar retorted. Which took the wind out of Rosethorn’s sails quite nicely, and it made Lark smile again.

Rosethorn sighed. “Alright, boy. Settle down. I know.” She shook her head. “Go pick those carrots I asked for.”

“I’m sure you’ll all enjoy your dinner plans,” said Lark.

“Yes. And we’ll definitely not be back until after dinner,” Sandry repeated, ears reddening. “So you can…also…enjoy.”

“Our absence,” Tris provided crankily, and Rosethorn groaned.

“We’ll finish cleaning,” said Lark, who could barely hold back her laughter. “You can start your free time early.”

“I’ll get the carrots,” said Briar, and he gave Rosethorn a proud little grin when she patted his shoulder and smiled as he passed her.

“Little Bear needs a walk,” decided Sandry, giving Daja and Tris an eager look. They went out after her, and Lark could hear Tris and Sandry grumbling at each other all the way to the gate.

Rosethorn waited until the noises faded, then turned to Lark and silently threw up her hands.

“They’re being considerate,” Lark remarked.

“Green Man save us.” But she smiled, too, as she picked up the last plates off the table.

“An evening to ourselves,” sang Lark. “Perhaps I should earn some more bruises, this afternoon. Give you another chance to use that fern salve.”

“Gods, no,” said Rosethorn, emphatically. So emphatically, that it gave Lark pause.

Then Rosethorn shot her a laughing look, over her shoulder.

“I have far nicer salves in my workshop, Lark. _Massage_ salves.”

“Oh, my.”

They had a good evening to look forward to. 


End file.
